Well, this first day of leadership is starting out swimmingly. Sorry about the "Cermony" stuff in the first headline. Great start!

Anyway, wanted to just give you a little intro and keep you updated on how this first post-Leitch week will go. Since it's a short week and the bearded kid from CBS Sportsline's still filling out his paperwork, there won't be any major changes this week.

The first change you'll notice is the death of "About Last Night." I know many of you come to this website each morning wholly dependent upon that post to give you a heads-up on three quick snippets from the world of sports that you probably saw on Sports Center 500 times already, but it's had its last night. ( "About Last Night" is sooo "About Last Century." ) Awful Announcing's "Your Morning Video Wake Up Call" will, essentially, be the new "About Last Night." Makes sense, right? Fonzi.

Throughout the week I'll keep you updated on additions and subtractions from the site that may pop up here and there. If you have any questions, concerns, suggestions, column ideas, scathing insults about my mom, please email me at ajd@deadspin.com

Actually, if you want to insult my mother, just use the comments section below. She reads it often and comments under the handle "Token_Tennis_Fan."

Also: wannabe commenters. Please email Rob Iracane who is still deputized Combudsman until ESPN decides that Le Anne Schreiber is no longer pulling her saddlebags and poaches him to police their content.

Oh, and sadly, Brian Baldinger is no longer contributing to Deadspin. He's had a great run here, but typing just causes his pinky to swell too much.

Ready? Scream for me, Deadspin.

Daulerio came all the way up from Philadelphia to play this morning; we took the court at 7 a.m. We really can't believe he had the cojones to wear the jersey of a man Oakley was slapped for owing him money. Though sometimes we wonder if there's anyone on earth Oakley didn't slap for owing him money.

We don't mean to sound all Fawny Lupica here, but there really is nothing like stepping onto the floor of Madison Square Garden and shooting warmups. To think: Isiah Thomas lords over this court every night. Sadly, he was not there to scout, though, to be fair, not even he would have signed us.

It is worth noting that Charles Oakley didn't appear particularly amused by Daulerio's jersey choice. All told, Oakley wasn't amused by anything; he either didn't want to be there at all, generally looks like he wants to kill everybody in the room ... or both. Probably both. As we warmed up, he just glared off into space, wondering what Michael's up to, realizing that had he not gotten a little too cocky in that poker game the other night, he might never have been forced to sign up for this ridiculousness.

Or maybe he was deliriously happy and just looks like that all the time. It's Oak. You never know.

Worth noting: Our warmup session did not exactly inspire fear in the hearts of our opponents. (We think we airballed a dribble. We're not even sure how that's done, and we did it.) This kid, however, was unconscious; we didn't get to stay for his game, but the guy was draining NBA threes from everywhere. He can also grow facial hair better than we can.

Finally, warmup was over, and we sat to the side while a bleary-eyed announcer introduced the Knicks City Dancers. This was surely the earliest any of these women had ever been up in the morning; they dance for about 25 seconds. And it was still enough time for Patrick Ewing to have sex with half of them!

We were slated for the second game. In the first game, two of the "Joes" from the show took advantage of a clearly bored — and cold — Oak/Smith combo and, somehow, won. (Everybody played for seven minutes.) This was clearly the worst possible scenario for us. Not only was the veneer of invincibility gone, Oakley and Smith would be more warmed up now ... and pissed off.

So, after the loss, they had a pow-wow. This made Daulerio and us extremely nervous.

But, we had the ball first, because they were being sporting. We hadn't really designed any plays; in fact, we hadn't played basketball at all in about six months. Against two angry, competitive, cranky men ready to take our their frustrations. What could possibly go wrong?

OK, so Oakley didn't actually elbow us to the floor. (Though Daulerio claims he did get a shoulder when he tried to talk trash, whatever that means.) But we thought it was a cheap and funny visual joke after the setup. Forgive us.

So how did it go? Well, we'll put it this way: We figured any hope we had of winning would have to revolve around a perimeter game. And Charles Oakley was draining more shots than we were. It was gonna get ugly fast. We couldn't figure out what we were doing wrong.

It's possible they might have had a bit of a size advantage. Oakley and Smith jumped out to a spirited — as spirited as Oakley can be about anything — 7-0 lead ... and we were the ones winded. Fortunately, the "fans" were far away from the proceedings and might have missed it.

Oops. We suppose not. The worst part about this was not that we were losing; we expected that. The worst is that we were terrible. Neither we nor Daulerio have ever considered ourselves world class athletes — really! — but we were exhausted, pathetic and beaten ... just two minutes in! Our friend Aileen, who took these pictures, called us "old and unskilled." That was nice of her, particularly because she was exactly right. Five years ago we would have joked, "we're not teenagers anymore." Now, nearing our mid-30s, we started to realize that we didn't have youth anymore to sustain us or overcome our lack of natural ability. We were just old. We were the sad people in the fantasy camp we used to make fun of. Except we had hair. For now.

You see, now this is a shot that just doesn't have much hope of going in.

Like Rock'n'Jocks on MTV back in the day, the Pros Vs. Joes producers had given us a Break In Case Of Blowout button; any shot from halfcourt was five points. We would have needed to hit about three. At least the one we tried hit the rim. The best we could do was pull off one nifty backdoor play. The reaction of the crowd was not excitement; it was surprise.

After we missed this halfcourt shot, the ball bounced back to us. Charles Smith, who had been "guarding" us, backed off. "Go ahead, man, chuck it again." He was really nice about it, actually. We had never felt so much like a kid from the Make A Wish foundation. We obliged by trying to drive past him. He obliged by blocking our shot. We deserved that.

As the game mercifully wound down, we made one last dive for a last ball. We lost it, and we heard, from the sidelines, "good hustle, man, good hustle." We looked up, and standing over us was ... John Starks! He was "coaching" Oakley and Smith. But mostly: He was just smiling and having a good time. He was an awfully nice guy.

Like most of you, we remember Starks for his horrific Game 7 performance in the 1994 NBA Finals, when he went 2-for-18 and essentially cost the Knicks the title. As we looked up at him, applauding us, cheering us on ... well, John Starks was 2-for-18 once in his life, causing people like us to mock him for it. And this is how he returns the favor. We felt kind of 2-for-18 for life right there.

So we benched ourselves, and, around noon, we were finally able to breathe correctly again.

Photos by Aileen Gallagher. You can find the full set of photos right here.

(UPDATE: The Pros Vs. Joes people just sent us two shots from their cameraman — Al Bello/Getty Images for Spike TV — that sum up the experience right well. They are below. We lost 14-3, by the way.)

The guy seems sharp, but he's definitely no Johnnie Cochran.

So, right now, do you hate Harvey Levin and TMZ.com for putting the Las Vegas case out there so much? Have they made his life miserable?

Actually, if you want to know the truth, if it was appropriate, I would send Harvey a bottle of champagne and flowers. And chocolates. He has single-handedly discredited my client's two main accusers.The fact that Levin released a portion of the tape that has [one of the accusers] saying "Hey, let me get the number of Lydia at Inside Edition ... we're going to make a fortune off of this ..."

So, O.J. was set up again?

All I'm saying is, the next time I see Harvey, I'm definitely taking him to dinner.

It's a fascinating interview, though if we were Yale, and this thing went to trial, we'd be afraid O.J. was gonna replace us with a black guy.

Daily Examiner Interview: Yale Galanter [The Daily Examiner]

Earlier this weekend I was pointed in the direction of Nation of Islam Sportsblog, who was cited in a Philly Magazine blog post as being a "highly respected sports blog." The gist of NOIS's post was that the mainstream media had finally accepted their message. Big deal, I thought to myself. Daulerio was the one who wrote the Philly Mag post, and he was fully aware of what he was doing.

The next morning, I went back to the post and the term "highly respected" was removed, and simply referred to NOIS as a "sports blog." Highly damning.

Who changed it? Was it the AJ Daulerio? Or was it his editor? I haven't heard back from Daulerio (not everyone sidles up to their computer on the weekends, I suppose), but from what I know about newspaper blogs, higher-ups do enjoy having editorial control over them. And we all know how much editors detest citing blogs and taking them seriously, because then it bites them in the ass.

So I implore you, AJ Daulerio, to speak up and throw your editor under the bus. Call your editor out and say you weren't the one who disrespected the Nation of Islam Sportsblog with a sneaky post-publication edit. Play the race card. It may be your best chance to make it into the Deadspin Hall of Fame.

Our Message Accepted By Mainstream Media [Nation of Islam Sportsblog]
Andy Reid's Departure Is Likely Inevitable [Philly Mag]

We're gonna get right to predictions on this one, so that we do not further frighten young AJ Daulerio, who has already painted his face green.

• Cool Standings: Eagles.
• Football Outsiders: Eagles.
• Harmon Forecast: Eagles.
• Paul Zimmerman: Eagles.
• Peter King: Eagles.
• Kissing Suzy Kolber: Eagles.
• Deadspin: Giants. Sorry, Daulerio: The Giants have that baseball Cardinals feel, we think. Plus, sprinting like crazy into the postseason and then losing at home to the Giants ... doesn't that sound like something the Eagles would do?

We can't be the only one who likes Seattle, can we? Let us know in the comments ...

There were always a lot of things about Tiger Woods that suggested that he's not the coolest professional athlete out there — the uptight demeanor, the CEO gait, his inability to execute a high-five without people thinking he's mentally challenged — but what's most telling about Tiger Woods' nerdiness can be found within the soundtrack to Tiger Woods PGA Tour '07.

Observe:

Way Out West "Anything But You"
Fort Knox Five "Brazillian Hipsters"
Hextastic "Chase Me"
The Long Cut "Holy Funk"

What? No Deep Forest?

However, in a few months, Tiger will show another side of his persona, when he and wife Elin Nordictrack become parents to a bouncing baby Swedecaublasian. Now, I'm at the age where a lot of my friends are starting to churn out kids, and there have been so many goopy newborn pictures forwarded to me there's no way to distinguish them — not even the name. The only name I remember out of the 34 or so friends with babies is Sophia. I thought that name was memorable. The rest? It's a blur of Jennifers and Irishy crap. No idea.

Tiger's baby name, given its prodigious celebrity, is certainly one that has a chance to be overzealously unique — or, given his father's personality, predictably bland. So, this week, I'm putting on my Linda Rosenkrantz jersey, beer-bonging some breast milk and placing odds on what this Woods moppet will be called.

Let's powder some rashes, after this jump.

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Lil' Earl: 1/4

Tiger's affection for his father, Earl Woods, is well documented, and he still hasn't fully recovered from his father's death last May. Memorializing Earl by bestowing his name upon his newborn is a huge priority for Tiger — regardless of the sex of the baby. In 20 years, we could all be drooling over the Stuff pictorial of a semi-famous lady named Earl. Out of respect, they should outfit her with an oversized baseball hat and giant sunglasses.

Stacy Grenrock: 3/1

What better way to showcase some edginess than by naming his new child after Esquire's pouty sex columnist? Besides, if he's going to give his baby a name that is already familiar to a small portion of the population, this is a more original way to go than, say, "James." And why run the risk of having a baby that's destined to a life of pockmarks and a penchant for humping his friend's teenage daughters?

Fuzzy: 8/1

Sure, this is probably a long shot, but Woods has publicly stated that he's forgiven Fuzzy Zoeller for his whiskey-soaked comments during the '97 Masters, and what a better way to solidify that fact than by naming his son after him? Say it out loud: Fuzzy Woods. That name sounds like greatness. It also sounds like either a Negro League baseball player or the wise, old bear that lives inside an oak tree in a children's book. But first — greatness.

Ocelot: 12/1

This sticks with the whole cat theme, in case they wanted to go that route, and is very Shakespearian as well. And it could start a nice theme if they choose to have more kids: Lynx, Cougar, Panther, Skink... wait, that's a lizard. Marmoset? Is that a cat?

Urethra: 15/1

I always thought that would be a pretty name for a girl.

First 20 tipsters get a free set of steak knives and the carving knife. Act now!

Regards,

ajd

Of all the regrettable things to get suspended for in professional athletics, failing a gender test has got to be the most humiliating. Getting busted for steroids or illegal supplements is silly, yet understandable, but having your silver medal stripped because a gaming committee has decided you're a little too mannish, well, that's got to sting a bit more. That's exactly what happened to Indian runner Shanti Soundarajan who, after silver medaling at the Asian Games, had it taken away this week because she had more Y chromosomes than Olympic-caliber international competition allows and — actual quote from the report — "Did not possess the sexual characteristics of a woman." Ouchy.

Quick gender misrepresentation story: A few years ago I was doing a story about New York City sex clubs and went to one with a couple of friends for "research." This one in particular pretty much a dingy loft that had a few sectioned off rooms with mattresses on the floor, a living area with two old wall TVs playing porn, a couple of dusty couches and, most surprisingly, a folding table with a deli meat tray similar to one you'd find at a local church picnic or cousin's graduation party.

So, you pay $40 to enter this place and then basically sit around and wait for one of the banged-up women to offer you a flickity-flick in one of the cloistered off rooms. (I'm proud to say I did not partake. However, I'm not proud to admit that I did have a ham and cheese sandwich.)

My one friend was approached by a lady who, in lieu of just offering her services, proceeded to go right to the hard sell — in front of me, and every other shady dude standing around. Now, my friend's not the exhibitionist type, but he is, frustratingly very polite to a fault. So, he just stood there and let this person do her thing, intermittently glancing over at me with a befuddled, what-do-you-do-in-this-situation?-expression.

Unfortunately, this type of activity tends to draw a crowd. Pretty soon, the crusty regulars surrounded him and began pleasuring themselves. Even though I'd heard of this particular sleazy phenomenon, much like a Great White leaping out of the ocean to snatch a baby seal, I never thought I'd actually see something like this in person.

As the shark-leaping continues to unfold over the span of a good few minutes, an older Indian gentleman starts making small talk.

"She's good, right? I know him. He's almost complete!"
"Excuse me? Him? What do you mean?"
"Yes. He works in my store. He's a nice boy. I pay for his titties!"

Ruh-roh.

So, do you: A) Yank your buddy away because he's getting fellated by a Chinese boy or B) Let the whole thing play out and then tell him after you leave?

Oh, if only I could've photographed the expression on his face the next day.

Anyway, this week I'm putting on my Tootsie costume, popping in my Transamerica DVD and calculating odds on the next professional athlete to fail a gender test.

Let's fill this cup with pee, after the jump.

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Phil Mickelson: 1/1

As more pro golfers take a cue from Tiger and realize they can lift weights to help improve their game, and guys like Stuart Appleby start rolling up their sleeves to show off their triceps, the PGA may begin testing for steroids. The next logical step is to start testing for penis. And if you look at the correlation between Mickelson's major victories and the sudden reduction of his once clamorous breasts, you can see that if the PGA was to perhaps do an investigation, well, Phil could be in trouble.

Joakim Noah: 2/1

Florida's gangly big man will most likely be a high draft pick for one lucky NBA team this year — but why not the WNBA? Be it his questionable choice in sleepwear or the fact that he was very girly facial features, I'd have a tough time believing Joakim was all dude. Besides his mother was a former Miss Sweden — a country long known for its progressive outlook on transgendered individuals — which means there's a strong possibility she herself was once a young man named Goran.

Courtney Paris: 4/1

The Sooners big ol' country Courtney has a lot going for her, but when someone is consistently referred to having "uncanny strength" for a woman — who just happens to be 6'3, 250 — well, that should raise a few eyebrows. Her high profile subjects her to more scrutiny, so don't be surprised if this year we find out Ms. Paris is actually the guy who played "House" in Police Academy 4, using a very creative way to rejuvenate his career.

Canadian Men's Speed Skating Team: 1/4

These guys also took a silver medal in Turin last February. Now, go to Google. Type in "male camel toe" and see what images come up. See? Somebody got robbed.

AJ Daulerio's Cultural Oddsmaker runs every Friday. Email him and let him know what you think.

Like the rest of the world, when I heard about a year ago that Rocky 6 was in production and was actually going to happen, there was an uncontrollable eye roll. This was as desperate an attempt for an aging actor to recapture something long gone and had absolutely no shot at adding anything more to an already stale franchise. Had Stallone not seen Airplane: The Sequel, when they had the movie poster for Rocky 12 with a withered old man holding up his gloves? He's embracing the punch line. This is going to be awful.

Then as the YouTube videos began to leak, it became apparent that this was no longer a joke. Essentially, this movie is as close to reality as any of the films can get. Just like Rocky Balboa has no business stepping into the ring with a haymaker-throwing younger opponent, Sylvester Stallone has no business re-beefing himself for the sake of sentimental lore.

Or does he?

Once the previews started to filter out on television, my stifled laughter began to turn to eager anticipation: that ominous kettledrum intro, that melodramatic "You can't do this!" dialogue and the snippets of ring footage of that aging, puffy-eyed hero stepping into another skull-shattering roundhouse. It didn't make me wince with embarrassment — it actually moved me. Then it became apparent that, shit, maybe Stallone's a genius. Now, I'm hooked and giddy with anticipation as Wednesday draws closer and closer.

To put me into even more of a frenzied state, I contacted A.J. Benza, former Oddjack employee, Howard Stern exile and, most incredibly, Rocky Balboa costar to get his thoughts on the matter. Considering that Benza's a blood-and-guts dago, I found it a little alarming that he has to play Mason Dixon's manager in this movie. A villain, no less, which is blasphemy for an Italian. How could he possibly root against Rocky?

"To be in the ring while 3,000 chanted his name and I had to act like I couldn't give a shit ... that was almost impossible. Being in this flick, to me, is as important as signing the Declaration of Independence."

Take that, liberty! We've learned to things from this statement: 1) This movie will probably rule for all of the right reasons and 2) A.J. Benza was one of the founding fathers. Who knew?

So, greaseballs of the world unite. Our time is near and our savior from South Philadelphia has returned to rejuvenate us once again just in time for the holidays. In celebration of this glorious week ahead, I'm placing odds on Rocky Balboa's triumphant return. Getupyousonuvabtich...

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Over/Under on Grown Men Crying At Points During Film: 20

Here's a fun fact: Two sports movies I consistently cry at are Rudy and, um, A League of Their Own. Ah, shut it. When Betty Spaghetti's husband dies it's one of the most tragic things ever shown on film. I may have no testicles. Let's move along, now.

Anyway, I'm bracing myself. Can you imagine if, gasp, Rocky actually dies? Christ. I might have to be taken out of the theater on a stretcher.

Grown Men Punching Each Other As Film Lets Out: 1/40

Eddie Murphy pretty much nailed that stereotype when he did that whole "Way to go, Rocko!" routine in Raw. I remember after, walking out of the Eric 4 Feasterville (R.I.P.) on Thanksgiving Day after Rocky IV, being introduced to the "man tackle" by a pack of older jean-jacked gentleman who kept running into each other and trying to knock one another over.

Me: Dad, are those guys fighting?
Dad: No, son, they're just happy and inspired.

Then he punched me in the face. It's infectious.

Over/Under on Percentage of Theater Cheering at More Than One Point During the Movie: 92 Percent

If you're going into this movie expecting anything less than cornball earnestness, well, you might as well not go. If you're going into this movie expecting, well, Rocky Fucking Balboa, then it will easily be one of the top five movie experiences of your life. Honestly, when was the last time you've been in a movie that people clapped? (And if it was Snakes on a Plane, well, pity.) For me, it was Swordfish when Halle Berry went topless. Place went apeshit.

Over/Under on Number of Male Moviegoers Who Will Join a Gym After Watching Movie: 98 Percent

It's one thing to see, say, Ryan Reynolds get all shredded up for Blade III, and then being inspired to go do something about your growing paunch and your atrophying muscle tone. It's another thing all together to see a 60-year-old man doing beer keg lunges and looking better than you. Shouldn't happen. Sure, Stallone's still got the manatee-with-muscles type look about him, but I'm certain there'll be plenty of Weeble-shaped 40-year-olds that finally start using that Crunch membership before it expires at the end of the year. Be prepared to see your elliptical machines taken over by a lot of guys that look like Steven Schirripa.

Rocky Balboa Will Beat We Are Marshall at The Box Office: 3/1

Professional oddsmaking organizations like BetUs.Com have this at a very expensive 1/20 right now. I don't know if they're shorting Rocky or just really, really hate Matthew McConaughey. Now, if I remember correctly, the three kids that survived the Marshall crash ate the frozen cadavers of their dead teammates, right?

We Are!

(Photos from The Rocky Balboa Blog)

———————————————————————-

Rex Grossman's A Transsexual: 2/1

Wow, raise your hand if Grossman screwed up your fantasy team four times this year? Thank you. So, not only does Grossman have the entire Midwest muttering about Brian Griese, but there's about a million foolish Fantasy Footballers who got duped into thinking this guy was an easy 20 points every weekend only to end up with -12. Given that, don't be surprised if rumors about him growing up as a small girl in Bloomington, Ind. named "Rita" start to trickle out in the next few weeks. Have you seen his hands? They're the size of kitten paws.

Samuel Dalembert Practices Voodoo: 7/1

The 76ers' mercurial big man is one of the only NBA players born in Haiti. And those in Philly know that this guy had these mysterious injuries his first two years that had him sitting on the bench in an ill-fitting suit, seemingly destined for a Sharone Wright/Christian Welp-like career. But, he bounced back. Thanks, of course, to sacrificing a goat in the middle of the locker room. Soon after, the goat's carcass mysteriously disappeared, reportedly stolen by Pat Croce's brother.

Pedro Martinez Killed A Midget: 5/1

Sure, he was thimble-sized and probably lived longer than he was supposed to, but tiny Nelson de la Rosa's death last October should be investigated. At that time, de la Rosa and Pedro had a pretty heavy falling out without accusations of "exploitation" and some such being thrown around. Then, the little guy up and dies from "heart failure" when, in fact, it was more likely the Dominican temper of a pitcher who didn't like getting badmouthed in the papers by a dwarf.

Joe Paterno Has Been Dead For Four Months: 25/1

Such a beloved coach, the PSU alumni association knows that appearances mean everything, and they need to maintain interest in the program this season before finding a significant replacement for Paterno. Hence, they've known that Paterno's been dead from dysentery after he crapped himself during the Ohio State game. But, they've been doing this "Weekend at Bernie's"-style cover up ever since. Honestly, what other 95-year-old man could survive being cracked in the knees by a lineman and not die? Not a one. That's because, since October, Joe Paterno's been a giant expensive puppet built by one of Jim Henson's sons.

Jose Uribe Killed in Car Crash: 40/1

Please. Not falling for that one again!

Everybody loves an underdog story, and apparently, Hollywood loves a South Philly underdog story more than once. And I've always been a mess when it comes to movies like Invincible: I break out in hives everytime I watch Hoosiers. The Rookie made me want to hug somebody. And Rudy ... well, shit — full nervous breakdown.

Even as a Philadelphia Eagles fan, I'll admit to never having heard of Vince Papale until the movie was being made. So, this'll be two-times the fun for me. And for others too — next week the movie should prove to be a box office draw for the lucrative sappy dad demo and racially insensitive loudmouthed housewives everywhere.

And I can always go for more of these films. So, in this week's Cultural Oddsmaker, I'm making a list of long shot feel-good sports movies that'll soon be coming to a theater near you. I figure autistic three-bomber Jason McElwain is most likely being shot right now with that kid from Jerry Maguire set to star, so he's exempt from this list, as 1/5 favorite.

For now I'm putting on my Brian Piccolo jersey, having my buddy Radio make me a sandwich and straining the eyelids to pretend I'm not crying.

Weep with me, after this jump.

———————————————————————————-

High Five: The Jim Abbott Story: 5/1

Nothing's more inspiring than people with disabilities: My Left Foot. Murderball. The Ringer. And what could be more heartwarming than a one-armed pitcher? Who throws a no-hitter, no less! And through the magic of CGI, they won't even need to actually go out and find a guy misssing his right hand. Well, if they found a left-handed one armed guy who could pitch, they could do that whole reverse-the-screen trick. They did that for Anthony Michael Hall as Whitey Ford in 61, I think.

No Legs Up: The Willie McQueen Story: 8/1

Follow the gimpy path of eight grade football player Willie McQueen, a 3' 1 inch nub who was a terror of a nose tackle on his local football team. Also another great CGI candidate. And would also be a marketing department's dream. Think of all the possibilities — maybe a bobblehead doll. Or a chew toy for pets.

My Name is Jim...ShitFuckChineseWhore!: The Jim Eisenreich Story: 9/1

Jim Eisenreich twitched his way through 10+ major league seasons and proved himself a clutch pinch hitter despite suffering from Tourette's. But what was it like growing up for Jim? Did he get teased? He had to. This could be a real life Forrest Gump-type movie.I wonder if Eisenreich played ping-pong?

There's a Dead Guy With a Mustache on the Roof: The Bo Diaz Story: 12/1

Sure, not many people remember Bo outside of his mediocre catching career, his nappy fro and his Fasano-esque mustache of yore. But did you know Bo Diaz is one of the most highly regarded Venezuelan baseball players in history? But, sadly, his life was cut short when he was crushed installing a satellite dish. (Just another reason why the NFL should be ashamed of itself.) Couldn't you just imagine Paul Thomas Anderson directing this movie? Or at least reshooting Magnolia to add Bo's death in the intro?

Anyway, fun activity for the whole family today. American History X was on Encore last night and I realized what I was thinking about most was how Derek Vinyard's sneer-at-the-black guys while hanging on the rim would rank on Charles Barkley and Kenny Smith's Dunk Face scale. And lucky for us, the soda pop promoting the website enables you to upload your own custom Dunk Face. But it requires all of these goofy plug-ins that I have no patience for. According to more technically savvy individuals, I've been told that the whole program used for uploading your own dunk face is "retarded." But that's why Gawker's equipped with photoshop:

So, if anybody else wants to submit their own inappropriate Dunk Face, please do so. Teri Schiavo would be gold. There's something to do to keep you motivated after the post-Presdient's Day funk. No biting, no peeing in the pool and deposit your tips and dunk faces to tipsATdeadspin.com.

We're off.

Greetings and salutations, Spinheads. I, A.J. Daulerio, get the first- day duties in what is sure to be the most painful week in young Will Leitch's life. As you may or may not know, for the next week, Will's yachting around Antigua wearing an Arizona Cardinals sailor's hat with no phone, no internet and absolutely no control over what (dis)graces these hallowed pages over the next six days. But, lucky for Will, this is a slow sports week. Well, there are the Olympics. Go U-S-A, rah-rah-poop-splat, etc.

Anyway, same drill as last time: be sure to send your tips, personal insults, copy edits, tuna casserole recipes, Soduku strategies, sister's phone number or whatever it is you have rolling around your filthy, sports-addled minds to tipsATdeadspin.com

Let's get through this week together and pray that Will doesn't get attacked by pirates. That would suck in the most hilarious way possible.

Well, my week is done. This was exhausting. I'll be sure to remember the next time I cover a Super Bowl to:

a) Get a hotel room;
b) Possibly get a Super Bowl ticket;
c) learn how to work both a digital camera and a video camera;
d) make more friends in the media.

Overall, the experience has been a good one. Thanks to those PR fellas who did their damndest to help me out. Special thanks to Ilowski Sausagem Jaimie at AOL Sports Bloggers and the Coen family for their hospitality and Grape Nuts. No thanks to those who didn't. I'm sorry I failed to secure a salami football toss with Mitch Albom, Jessica Alba or Chuck Klosterman. I assure you I asked.

Anyway, after the jump, another cell phone number for you and all your friends to pass around. Until next year's XLI madness ...

Oscar Winner Jamie Foxx's cellphone number:

818-371-1136

Heyyyyy. Hoooo.

So, it came and went, and I'm, thankfully, still alive and didn't break any expensive equipment. The Pittsburgh Steelers, on the backs of their 40 million fans in Detroit this weekend, won that boring-ass Super Bowl yesterday. I'd hoped that some kind soul aware of my situation would possibly get me a ticket, but that's wishful thinking. I mean, I got a football-shaped salami and was invited to many of the parties downtown. I got to sit next to Tom Arnold, and I got a chance to almost lose a rental car. An actual ticket to the game would've been pushing it, or, even worse, come close to actual real journalism. Everybody knows that wasn't the point of this endeavor.

More round-up after the jump.

In downtown Detroit yesterday, it was a decidedly more controlled atmosphere than it was from the beginning of the week. Woodward Avenue - the road that leads directly to downtown Detroit off of I-75 - was closed off to vehicles at least a mile from the stadium.

I had to park at Wayne State University, which still charged $20. Walking downtown from this point of view, you can really see the "other" Detroit - the one of the burned out buildings and dilapidated housing projects that have been hidden from viewpoint the most of this week.

Outside of Hockeytown, Chelio s Bar, it was all black and gold. People were standing in line outside of Hockeytown for up to three hours just to get a seat inside. There were easily 50 Steelers fans to every Seahawk fan, and Steelers fans were decidedly more drunk and uppity. But, I m pretty sure if I were trapped in a Super Bowl city with my hometown playing with no tickets, I d probably be drunk as well. It was amazing, still , how many people were actually outside trying to buy tickets. Is this not a mugger s paradise? You can pretty much guarantee that everyone looking for extra tickets is carrying at least $3,000 on their person - as one Seahawks fan admitted he had.

And if you don t get the tickets, then what do you do with all of that money for the rest of the day? Hopefully, they found a safe deposit box before midnight and escaped downtown before all of the homeless shelters emptied out. It was probably like Dawn of the Dead in Detroit come midnight, once all of these people cooped up for a week were finally released.

As you inched closer to the Ford Field area, it felt like you were walking further and further away from it. Every area a half mile away from the stadium was gated off. Those people who had tickets were corralled into the stadium area at a very leisurely pace. There was only one person visibly throwing up outside of a bar at around 3 p.m. and, sadly, no fights.

It was a very collegial attitude, even when some brave Seahawks fans would attempt to break into the Steeler s pep rallies - which were seemingly everywhere. If Seahawks fans taunted them, most of the time they were either greeted with gentle shoulder taps or guffaws. "Oh, that s cute!" was the overriding attitude of Steelers fans faced with Seattle trash talk. And Seattle fans knew this was unfamiliar territory for them. It s hard to taunt somebody while you re wearing pacific blue as your primary color.

But congratulations to the city of Detroit for a fantastic job hosting the Super Bowl. There were plenty of opportunities to blow this thing, and the city held its ground throughout a very hectic week. It was nice to see many locals walking around the city that they ve lived in close proximity to their whole lives, but were always afraid to enter. And there were only two murders! That s a pretty healthy number considering the amount of extra people they had to look after. But they should really invest in something along the lines of a mass transit system if they want to do this again. That sissy little People Mover just won t cut it.

Good afternoon. Congratulations Pittsburgh Steelers. I ve discovered a few things this weekend. One: It s just as tough to get into a Detroit homeless shelter without press credentials as it is, oh, the ESPN or Maxim party. And two, celebrities, in some cases, are more important during Super Bowl weekend than the actual players. And, also, that PR people are friendly to you as long as you play by their rules. If you don t, well, you re pretty much guaranteed a freeze-out — even if they acted like your friends for a little while.

But this post is mainly about celebrities and their almighty hold over the weekend. Why else would about 100 media members slog through the nasty weather to Michigan State Fairgrounds Field House on Saturday to watch people like Ludacris, Dylan McDermott and Jessica Alba race each other in go karts? Oh, right— for charity. However, I have no idea what the Cadillac Grand Prix go-kart race is even supporting for a charity. Maybe it s for homeless people? Or AIDS? I hoped it was an elaborate intervention set up for Pat O Brien, who they actually let race in the go-karts. In person, the man looks like a walking sexual harassment suit. He has that creepy uncle disposition nailed. And you can t not look at him without thinking of that horrifying cell phone message playing in a loop throughout your head.

Overall, the most interesting aspect of the celebrity go kart race was the media hierarchy in its absolute glory. There were two separate sections for media. On one side, in the VIP area, were the important ones — E! Entertainment Tonight, Extra!. Then there was the middle section, where I was, with outfits like Entertainment Tonight Canada, local Detroit Fox affiliates, Univision, Token Black network, etc. This was the Scrub Media center. While the VIP media were actually able to interact with the celebrities as soon as they came out of the tunnel, scrub media was set in the middle of the track behind bails of hay and a metal crowd gate. We were allowed to interview the celebrities as they walked passed us, just like any other red carpet event. And I was definitely the biggest scrub in Scrub Media. While everybody else had microphones, giant cameras with overhead lights and semi-attractive correspondents asking probing questions like "How do you like Detroit?" " What does this event mean to you?" and, my personal favorite, "Do you like riding in go-karts?" I stood between them with a refurbished JVC handheld video camera and JoJo, the salami football.

Read about the rest of the day after the jump, and enjoy this video.

It was amazing how serious Pat O Brien was taking this event. Before his race, he gave some of his co-racers the sideways handshake-one-armed-chest-bump-hug-combo that you see NBA players do right before tip-off. Actually, "Entourage" s Adrian Grenier spun his way out of the O Brien handshake. Brilliant, career-saving move by Grenier, in my opinion.

There were there different races with three different sets of celebrities; I d list all of them, but you know, check out Pete McEntegart s blog for all the rundowns of it. He was there. He even "reported" on it. I was more interested in trying to get as many photos/film footage of JoJo enjoying the race. These are my priorities.

Actually, here's a sports angle. Two football players were involved in the race: Kansas City Chiefs mammoth tight end Tony Gonzalez and New England Patriots defensive tackle Richard Seymour. They were both struggling to fit into their respective cars. And then there was Alba. Even though I d been promised a salami football toss with her just two short days ago, it was apparent that I wasn t getting anywhere near anybody on this day. (The Jimmy Kimmel green room hi-jinx pretty much put the kabosh on any one-on-one camera time with her or other "selected" celebrities, so I was told.) Once Alba came out, it was easy to see that most of the people there were angling for her; she was, I guess, the biggest star. The amazing thing was, she wasn t as stunning in person as I d imagined. In fact, she looked disappointingly normal. Still hot, obviously, but not the type of woman you bump into walls, or , in this case, bails of hay over.

But "My Name Is Earl" s Jamie Pressley? Well, holy salami footballs. Pressley was also suffering from some sort of throat malfunction which made her voice much raspier and shot her stock up six more points. She was the flag girl for two of the races. I watched her most of those two races. Interestingly enough, the other flag person for the race was Heisman winner Reggie Bush. I yelled "Go Texans!" to him while he was on stage, but he ignored me. He seemed very comfortable just to wave a flag. And then when the race started he waved the flag, spun around and attempted to lateral the flag away back to Jamie Pressley. It failed and killed all the momentum for the next race.

Sadly, the only acknowledgement of the salami came from Tony Gonzalez, whom I asked what he thought about the football salami right in the middle of the Scrub Media melee. He seemed a little confused by the question, as did the rest of Scrub Media. Thankfully, I have video of this — and it s well lit. Progress.

(Author's Note: The cake picture actually has nothing to do with this story. I just forgot to put it up in the Jimmy Kimmel Green Room story and thought it would be a shame to waste.) Before I went on the air on AOL Sports Bloggers Live, I had the opportunity to walk around Cobo Hall at the NFL Experience. Now, for those of you who haven't read about the NFL Experience, imagine a giant NFL carnival erected in the middle of a, um, giant hall. And imagine it being attended by every individual whose every worn a personalized game jersey and owns vanity Detroit Lions license plates. And, of course, throw into that mix a 1 1/4 pound salami football and you have plenty of opportunity for chaos.

JoJo did as many activities as he could. He was weighed on an actual NFL scale, he sat in plaster-castered replica of a 400-pound lineman's leg, he watched actual NFL footballs get made and he sat on top of a headless body of an Atlanta Falcon. But, of course, there were plenty of things he was not allowed to do.

Chuck Klosterman interviewed the Rolling Stones yesterday and blogged about that. I lost my rental car and took a salami football to a shlocky family-oriented coporate shill fest to make fun of people. How am I doing?

Find out what else JoJo could do and which party I was officially banned from this evening, after the jump. Also watch some of the not-so-shaky/dark-video in which I meet the great Joe Ilowski, adopt JoJo and let loose on Cobo Hall.

· JoJo wasn't allowed to be tossed through a tire.

· He was also not allowed to be tossed into a soccer net.

·He was not allowed to be kicked through a goalpost.

· He was not allowed to be shoved into the "world famous" Diet Pepsi machine's deposit door.

· He was not allowed to run the 40.

· He was not allowed to be interviewed on AOL Sports Bloggers Live.

· He was not allowed to be shoved into Tom Arnold's pocket.

· Damien Woody would not sign JoJo.

But, like JoJo, we know what it feels like to be told "No!"

From: fuckingflak@eastsidepr.com
Date: February 3, 2006 1:27:32 PM EST
To: nicelady@nicemagazine.com
Subject: RE: ESPN party request

So sorry XXXX. I guess AJ will not be allowed. Nothing to do with XXXX(Nice) Magazine, but ESPN will not allow anyone from Deadspin in the event. And I was just told that AJ will not be allowed in do to his affiliation with them.So sorry. Trying to find out the reason...

It had to be the salami football.

Yes, it's invigorating reporting from Detroit with absolutely no agenda, limited press passes or knowledge of the city. Some things turn out better when there s no real planning or thought involved. However, as I found out yesterday, it s best to take a little bit of time to familiarize myself with surroundings in a strange city. After running around in a harried, unkempt pace for the three days I ve been here, it finally caught up to me.

I dashed out the door at 4 p.m. to run over to Cobo Hall to participate in an AOL Sports Bloggers Live radio broadcast at 5 p.m. I sped down I-75 toward Detroit - a route I ve become a comfortable with in the past three days - and after detouring from my usual exit, found the first $20 parking "lot" I could, to get away from traffic. The parking lot was more non-descript than the previous places I d found in the now heavily congested downtown area, but I was in a rush. I took a quick mental picture of the surrounding area and figured I'd worry about the exact location later.

At 6 p.m. I left Cobo Hall, exhausted, looking forward to a night off of party crashing since I d been here. By 6:55 p.m., after walking through the streets of Detroit and the whole area of where I thought I parked my pseudo-SUV, the Mitsubishi Endeavor, for close to an hour, it slowly dawned on me that I had no idea where I parked my car.

Rest of the story after the jump.

I remembered a few cross streets I thought I had seen while sprinting to Cobo, but they were scattered —- at best. I had no ticket for from the lot because I had no time for such matters. I walked up to every police officer and parking lot attendant I could find, and they did the best they could, based on my scatterbrained information ("No, I don t remember the cross streets ... no, I don t have a parking stub ... no, I don t remember what landmarks I parked near ... um, I think I remember it being near a street called Grand-something."). They all responded with the same exasperated apologies and wished me luck.

Then one officer laid it out for me: You re trying to find a needle in a haystack, man."

I walked through the WinterFest on Woodward Street 12 times. I passed by Comerica Park and Ford Field another 20 times. I walked up and down Congress Street, retracing my frantic steps from Cobo. I saw my old friend the RenCen, and I remembered how hopeful I was, just three short days ago. Now, I hated the city. All of the newly lit streets with their Super Bowl XL banners became taunting symbols of failure. The streets were completely packed with Steelers jerseys, Lions jerseys and groups of people wearing company windbreakers (Comcast, Pontiac, AOL, so on), all of which I contemplated punching at varying points.

"Detroit Rock City" was blaring from every outdoor speaker at Winter Fest. I was going to lose my shit. Spending a night in jail was much more appealing than having to walk around downtown anymore.

I became desperate. I paid two homeless people to help me find the car. Basically, they just ran 10 feet ahead of me and pointed at every parking lot they came across and yelled "Here! Here it is!" But even they gave up after 20 minutes. Plus, I was carrying thousands of dollars worth of video equipment in downtown Detroit. Even though the city is active and heavily policed this week, it is still not the best idea to walk around with two guys wearing beat-up trench coats, slippers and urine.

Then I found a well-lit area and decided to go over my videotape; I thought I remembered taking some footage as soon as I ran out of the car to show where Cobo Hall was. I scanned the footage and, yes, indeed I had taken some shots on my walk over. But, as we all know, my videotaping skills are somewhat suspect, so according to my tape, I had much started my journey at the corner of a "Half-Curb-Sidewalk" and "Jacket Sleeve."

At 9 p.m., after traversing the area and much further for another hour, I finally had to call for a ride. My legs were exhausted, and I was becoming delirious. I started following a family dressed in Steelers jerseys because they seemed so happy and content, far from my exhaustion and defeat. I got picked up, drove around for another couple hours and then took a break. I spent the rest of the night trying to figure out exactly what to tell the rental car company the next day. What could you say? I lost the car? I misplaced it? Should I fax them over a map of the general area and just leave it at that?

Finally, at 2:30 a.m., with the assistance of friends more knowledgeable of the downtown area, I finally found the car. The lot was completely different than I d remembered it. The city is so busy closing off streets to keep up with the surging crowds that it completely cloistered off my parking area. Sure, if I d remembered the street it was on (Randolph), I could ve found it, oh, seven hours earlier. But the city should be cognizant of the people covering the Super Bowl who pay not attention to things such as "street signs" and "landmarks." It s just not fair to me, or you, the readers. I plan on sending Detroit Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick a strongly worded letter this afternoon.

Here's JoJo. He's the salami football from Ilowski's Sausage that I picked up this morning; he will be accompanying me on the rest of my not-so-exciting adventures. JoJo is a strapping 1 1/4 pound salami made of the Midwest's finest dead farm animals. He's a local, so he'll be very beneficial in helping me navigate through downtown Detroit at night and also in perfecting the dialect. Plus — and you'll be happy to hear this — he's a former videographer, well-versed in appropriate lighting and how to hold the JVC camera steady.

JoJo is basically doing this work for free; like everyone else in this part of town, he's most excited at being on the list for the Maxim Rock City party on Saturday night.

Read about what else JoJo and I have planned, after the jiggity jump.

In addition to the rest of the parties, JoJo is slated to be photographed being tossed around, handled, kissed, caressed, fondled by as many people as possible. I've e-mailed Mitch Albom about setting up a salami football toss between us, but he has yet to get back to me. I'm not surprised, considering that he basically ripped off my story idea about visiting Detroit homeless shelters this morning. Even though he only stands approximately four-feet-tall, it's obvious that Mr. Albom is not easily intimidated and will do anything to get a leg-up on competing journalists, especially during Super Bowl week.

And, just in case JoJo has an unfortunate accident, like being squished, eaten or apprehended by unamused bouncers or bodyguards, I have secured reinforcements.

Just like Gremlins, if you dump water on the football salami, it multiplies. But all of these extra salamis will still be referred to as JoJo. It keeps things simple that way. Just ask George Foreman.

JoJo and I will soon be heading to the AOL Sports Bloggers radio program with Tom Arnold at the NFL Experience. Hopefully, somebody will let me toss JoJo through a moving tire or, at the very least, let me punt him. I just hope that Tom Arnold doesn't eat him before then.

Before I left last night to attend Jimmy Kimmel's green room after-party show, I was instructed that it was "time to let loose a little bit" by some of my, ahem, superiors over there at Gawker Media. I wasn t quite sure if they meant me in this case, or Deadspin, considering drunk Ben Roethlisberger has pretty much taken care of any thoughts that matters were getting stuffy around these parts.

After two days filled with nothing but fleeting hopes of doing something productive or blogworthy during my stay here in Detroit, I finally did something last night which would hopefully satisfy many of my job requirements which were, if I remember correctly, "find some interesting places where athletes and sports journalists will hang out." Then attack them on film and let them beat the crap out of me. Or something. Well, it didn't quite turn out that way.

Last night s Jimmy Kimmel green room after-party was, sadly, kind of lame. It s a shame that I m saying this. It completely proves how jaded I am. I bitch about not being invited to places, and now I m complaining about a place that offered up free top shelf booze, phylo-wrapped appetizers and the chance to see Bobcat Goldthwait in person. What have I become?

However, there are some amusing anecdotes to pass along, plus scintillating pictures of David Alan Grier dancing with a harem of women, a close-up shot of some cake and further explanation of the following short film, after the mighty jump.

Deadspin Video: Bobcat And Company ...

The after-party was at the Detroit Athletic Club, which I m told is a very haughty-taughty country club in downtown Detroit. "WASP-y" was the word most often thrown around.

However, in the Jimmy Kimmel green room, well-heeled elitism is left behind; the stuffy whiteguy sponsors from Pontiac were having a great time having a group of black women climb all over them. (Apparently, automotive executives are like rock stars in D-town. So we re told.) And David Alan Grier seemed to have no problem getting various, midriff-baring blond women come over and throw themselves at him. (Apparently, David Alan Grier is like a rock star in D-town as well.)

So, I was optimistic about this evening. After a challenging two days of uneventful blogging, I finally attended an event that has the possibility for something extraordinary to happen. Some of the PR people were getting me excited. I heard rumblings — even though, at 8:35 p.m., the party was a little light on notable guests —- there was a possibility of a second wave of superstar athlete celebrities coming in around 11 p.m., after they left Magic Johnson s event. Yes, yes, I was told — Chad Johnson, Michael Irvin and a few other high-profile stars were said to be stopping by. (Man, do you think Magic s pissed that his career trajectory has left his parties as pop-in stops during Super Bowl week? You can almost see him begging Irvin to call him later as he and C.J. slide out the door.)

Regardless, I was going to stay put, based on the off-off chance that there were actually some notable sports people arriving. But as time lurched by and the not-so-bustling party began to get thinner and thinner, it was obvious that Wednesday night was not the night to be at the Jimmy Kimmel green room after-party. Maybe it was because everybody was saving their energy for the rest of the week - or maybe it s that, well, these are the only types of parties I can get into because I m completely fucking lame.

However, we did get the opportunity to actually see the Jimmy Kimmel stage set-up at the Gem Theater. (Yeah, I know this is not a huge deal, but, dude, I had to find something to do or else I would ve stood there and gotten bombed on Jimmy Kimmel Live Bacardi Limon Mojitos — which were on the menu — all night. That would be a really shitty post.) I asked several people who seemed like they had something to do with the show if it would be okay to get on stage and take a quick video of me doing a cartwheel, but apparently, ABC has strict legal policies about such activities.

After that failed experiment, it was back outside to the various levels of the DAC watching the crowd dissipate even more. Pretty soon it was just a couple of us and Bobcat Goldthwait trying to cobble together an interesting thing to get him to say into the JVC. I took a moment to look at Bobcat, dressed in a Russian hat, thinking to myself, "Well, this is ... something." That dawned on me, anyway, as I stood there practically bullying him to "Say something in the Police Academy voice."

Sadly, I have a feeling Bobcat Goldthwait did not read a lot of Jacque Derrida while developing the vocal calisthenics required to perfect the voice of Zed.

By 10:30 it was pretty much official - there were not going to be any athletes attending the after-party this evening. However, Friday night, there should be a ton of people around because, well, that s when evvvvverybody rolls into D-town. I was told I would be allowed back any night for the rest of the week.

Well, I ll come back - with a salami football, no less - and see if Mr. Kimmel s after party could turn out to be everything you and I - we - would hope.